From a Drood to A Kill: A Secret Histories Novel

by Simon R. Green

  I had to grit my teeth to keep from crying out under my mask. My armoured glove was no protection against her unnatural strength. I could feel the bones of my hand grinding together, and the pain was almost unbelievable. She had to be applying tons of pressure per square inch to reach my hand inside the glove, and that just wasn’t possible. I put all my armoured strength into resisting her, fighting to pull my hand free—and couldn’t.

  “I’d surrender,” said Walker, “if I were you. Even the world of the Shifting Lands is no match for the world of dreams.”

  “What does that even mean?” I said angrily, fighting to keep the pain out of my voice.

  Walker shrugged. “It’s your hand. You tell me.”

  “All right!” I said harshly. “I give up! I surrender!”

  The Somnambulist let go of my hand. I staggered back a few steps and armoured down, holding my aching hand to my chest. It throbbed painfully, but it didn’t feel like anything was broken. The Somnambulist hadn’t wanted to injure me, just to teach me a lesson. Except . . . if she was asleep, how could she make decisions like that? I looked past her, at Walker, the legendary puppet master of the Nightside. He patted his sleeping enforcer on the shoulder, but she didn’t seem to notice. I flexed my hand, trying to drive out the pain and the weakness.

  “Told you,” said Walker. “She has the strength of dreams. Which means she can be as strong as she dreams she is.”

  All right, I thought, When in doubt, when all else fails, cheat. Or engage in lateral thinking, if you like.

  I stepped forward, thrust my face right into the Somnambulist’s, and shouted “Wake up!” as loudly as I could. “Wake up! Bedtime’s over! Wakey wakey!”

  The force of my breath was enough to disturb her long hair, but her expression didn’t change in the least. Even though I was shouting at the top of my voice, screaming right into her face, she didn’t react at all. No ordinary sleeper could have stayed asleep, but she did. I stepped back again, shaking my head. Walker grinned at me, as though pleased at my choice of tactics, and sportingly joined in, shouting right into the Somnambulist’s ear. Still nothing. Walker shrugged easily.

  “She can’t hear us,” he said. “She’s asleep. Far beyond the reach of mortal voices. She only hears what the Powers That Be want her to.”

  I considered some of the nastier weapons and dirty tricks I still had scattered about my person, that might be of some use against her, or Walker . . . but I couldn’t justify using anything like that against Carrys Galloway. She wasn’t the villain here; she was just the villain’s weapon. And besides, I didn’t want to reveal all the aces I had hidden up my golden sleeves, not this early. It was bad enough I’d allowed Walker to provoke me into using my armour against the Somnambulist, and failing. No . . . there were other ways of getting information out of people besides brute force. I looked thoughtfully at Walker.

  “She won’t always be around to protect you.”

  “Yes she will,” he said calmly. “As long as I have need of her, she’ll always be here. That’s what she’s for. She’s paying off her debts, Eddie. I wonder what poor Molly will be made to do to make good on all her promises?”

  “Don’t go there,” I said. “Really. Don’t.”

  And there must have been something in my voice, because he looked at me for a long moment. “What if you could pay off her debts for her? To Heaven, and to Hell? Would you be prepared to do that, Eddie? Suffer her torments and punishments? How much would you be prepared to sacrifice, and how far would you go? For Molly Metcalf?”

  “Forever and a day,” I said.

  I meant it, and I could see he knew I meant it.

  “That’s my boy!” he said genially.

  To my surprise, he seemed genuinely pleased with my response. As though that was the answer he’d been hoping for. He came out from behind the Somnambulist and leaned companionably against her, shoulder to shoulder, as he smiled at me.

  “You need to come along with me now,” he said. “So you can meet the other players in the current Big Game. Before everything kicks off and it all gets a bit rowdy.”

  He turned abruptly and walked away, striding out across the open grassy lawns. The Somnambulist turned and followed him, ignoring me. I hesitated, and looked around me. There was nothing to keep me here, and nowhere else for me to go. Nothing else to do. At least Walker seemed to have some idea of what was going on. So I just shrugged, and went after him.

  * * *

  The three of us strode along together, across the Drood grounds that weren’t really Drood grounds. The Somnambulist quickly took up a position between Walker and me, keeping us apart even though she was still clearly fast asleep. I wondered how she could see where she was going with her eyes closed. But then, there was a lot about her I didn’t understand. So I ignored her, if only because her presence up close was creeping the hell out of me.

  “In the Winter Hall,” I said finally to Walker, “back when I was floating between Life and Death; that was you, wasn’t it? Why did you interrogate me there? Why were you so determined to get answers out of me, to learn my secrets and those of my family? Who sent you there, and who told you to ask those questions?”

  “The Powers That Be,” said Walker, not looking round.

  “Getting really tired of that answer,” I said. “Who are they? What are they?”

  “I would have thought that much was obvious,” said Walker. “Just from the title they’ve given themselves.”

  And the really annoying thing was, Walker really did seem to feel I should be able to guess, from the clues available. I frowned fiercely as we walked along, considering the matter, though Walker seemed quite unconcerned. Was he hinting at something, or trying to distract me, keep me pointed in the wrong direction? I’ve never been good at puzzles. When you wear a suit of armour that can punch holes through the world, mostly you don’t have to be. Other people will normally fall all over themselves to tell you everything you need to know. The Somnambulist started to snore quietly. Walker elbowed her discreetly in the ribs, and she stopped.

  The Drood grounds seemed to just go on and on forever, much farther than they ever could have in the real world. Nothing but empty open lawns, stretching away into the distance. No landmarks anywhere; no trees or lakes or flower gardens. Nothing to help me judge distances. Nothing living moved anywhere in the grounds, apart from the three of us. I wondered whether this was a living world, or just an artificial construct. Time didn’t seem to change either. When I first arrived here, through the Departure Lounge Door, it had felt like midday, and it still did. Even though we seemed to have been walking for ages. I wanted to ask Walker if he felt the same way, but I knew he’d only say something evasive and deeply irritating, and I was damned if I’d give him the satisfaction.

  And then change did set in, quite suddenly, almost as though I’d triggered it by noticing its lack. The green lawns lost all their colour, all their detail, everything just dropping away until the three of us were walking across endless grey dust plains. Still no landmarks, still no sign of where we were, or where we were going. Great plumes of dust rose with every step we took, then fell slowly back to the ground again. Our footsteps made no sound at all, as though we weren’t really there. Just ghosts, passing through. It wasn’t hot or cold or anything much. I glanced back, and saw that the lawns we’d been walking through had vanished, replaced by endless plains of grey dust that looked like they’d always been there. A world of nothing but dust, because everything else had died long ago. The sky was full of static. And then the world changed again; and again; and again.

  Walker took it all in stride, and just kept going. I gaped openly around me, like a tourist. The Somnambulist didn’t seem to notice anything.

  We were walking through the dark, rain-slick streets of the Nightside. I recognised them immediately, from when I’d visited them before, with Walker. The dark, hidden heart o
f London, where it’s always three o’clock in the morning, always the hour that tries men’s souls. With its forever night sky, packed full of unfamiliar stars and a hugely oversized full moon. I didn’t like that moon; it looked like it might come crashing down on me at any moment.

  Hot neon signs burned fiercely on every side, sweet and gaudy as Hell’s candy and twice as tempting. Shop-windows displayed things no one in his right mind should ever want. Barkers outside nightclubs with ever-open doors yelled their price lists for the awful and unnatural practices to be found inside, and there never seemed to be any shortage of punters. Women lounged around on street corners in all their fetish finery, offering love for sale. Love, or something like it. And gods and monsters went walking hand in hand.

  I couldn’t keep from glaring at the scene around me. I’ve always hated the Nightside, where morality is relative, and Good and Evil work side by side and seem quite content to do so. I didn’t belong here, and not just because I was a Drood, and therefore banned. I’ve always needed to know where I stand, what matters and what doesn’t. The whole dark and sleazy setting set my spiritual teeth on edge.

  People hurrying up and down the crowded streets turned their heads to watch the three of us pass by, as though they could tell we didn’t belong. The looks they gave us weren’t in any way friendly. I was tempted to call on my armour, but I couldn’t escape the feeling that was what they wanted. To give them the excuse they needed to fall on me. Like a pack of rabid rats. For daring to disapprove of them. I stared straight ahead, ignoring them all, but after a while even the brightly lit windows in the towering office buildings came to feel like watching eyes. Observing the three of us with bad intent.

  Interestingly enough, no one seemed surprised to see Walker. Even though he was supposed to be dead.

  Sunlight suddenly blasted in, driving back the endless dark, dazzling me for a moment. I had to raise an arm to shield my eyes. Walker didn’t seem at all bothered by the harsh light, and neither did the Somnambulist. Of course, she already had her eyes shut. When I was finally able to see clearly again, the Nightside streets were gone, as though they’d never been there. The three of us were striding down a pleasant country lane. Low dry stone walls slouched on either side of us, pockmarked with age and long exposure to the elements. To my left stood a huge field of gently waving corn, so brightly golden it was almost painful to look at. To my right, a great open field full of grazing cows. And then the hair on the back of my neck stood up, as one by one the cows lifted their heads and turned to look at us. Until all of them were staring right at us, with cold, fixed intent.

  The sunlight was bright, even fierce, but I couldn’t feel it on my skin. I didn’t feel hot, or cold, or anything much. On an impulse I reached out and trailed my fingertips along the nearest dry stone wall. It felt hard and solid, and reassuringly rough to the touch; indisputably real. But I still couldn’t hear any footsteps, as the three of us walked along the road. The ground felt hard and solid enough underfoot, but I wasn’t sure I trusted it to stay that way. I checked for shadows, but we all had them.

  As though my checking was the last straw, the world changed again, and we were walking along the bottom of the ocean. Sand crunched and slid treacherously under my feet but still didn’t make a sound. The waters were dark, but I could see our surroundings quite clearly thanks to great shafts of light filtering down from far above. I waved a hand back and forth before me, and slow, fat ripples moved through the water ahead of me, but I couldn’t feel any of the expected resistance from the water.

  Clouds of clashing technicolor fish swam endlessly around us, sometimes sweeping in for a closer look but never getting close enough to be touched. Their mouths opened and closed in an eerie synchronisation. Some of them glowed in the dark, carrying their own lights within them. Which made me wonder just how deep we were. I was relieved to find I was breathing quite normally, but I didn’t feel any of the expected deep cold or pressure. Massive dark shapes passed by, to either side and overhead, vast and ponderous, observing the three of us from a safe distance. There were whales the size of mountains, and massive squid with huge, bulging eyes and tentacles that seemed to trail away for miles. There were other things too, not so easily identified. Just huge shadows, darker than the waters, watching with great unblinking eyes the size of houses. I really wanted to put on my armour now, but I knew I couldn’t afford to seem weak or scared in front of Walker. He was looking straight ahead as he strode along, but I had no doubt he was keeping an eye on me. He seemed entirely unmoved and unaffected by the whole underwater experience, while in my case it was only pride that was keeping me from being a gibbering wreck. An underwater wreck. Heh.

  I had no idea where I really was, or where I was going. I felt, simply, lost. And that was a strange new feeling, one I wasn’t used to at all. In my armour I always knew exactly where I was, and where everything else was. But now there was no way out and no direction home. I really didn’t like this new feeling. I stuck close to Walker—or as close as the Somnambulist would allow. At least Walker still seemed to have some idea of where he was going. And if he had some idea of how I was feeling . . . he had the decency to keep it to himself.

  Change again, and the three of us were trudging up the steep side of a mountain, heading for a far-off summit. All of us bent right over, staring down at the rocky ground before us, just to keep our balance as we fought our way upwards against the steep incline of the mountain. Even the Somnambulist had to lean forward, and she wasn’t even looking where she was going. I glanced back, and down, and saw that the sheer steep drop fell away behind us. The base of the mountain was far below, lost to view, hidden among thick clouds. I felt a sudden stab of vertigo and had to turn away. The air seemed authentically thin, and cold. I looked up and saw that the mountain plunged up into the sky. The snow-covered summit was only occasionally visible among slowly drifting clouds.

  I think Walker sensed I was losing patience and about to start demanding answers to questions again, because he just started talking, without having to be prompted. Still staring straight ahead, and stepping casually over and around the many broken stones littering the way.

  “The entire structure and substance of this world,” Walker said cheerfully, “this pocket reality called the Shifting Lands . . . is made up of psychegeography. That is, the whole physical environment shapes and reshapes itself constantly, to reflect the needs, wishes, and even hidden desires of the people who move within it. We are the world . . . if you like. Nothing here can be trusted to stay the same for long. But a word of warning, Eddie: the more you try to control your surroundings, through willpower and concentration . . . mental discipline . . . the more control will evade you. The Shifting Lands respond better to mood and emotion than to logic and common sense.”

  “So we create the world as we walk through it?” I said.

  “Perhaps,” said Walker. “Or it might all be down to the Powers That Be. Testing and toying with us, for their amusement.”

  (And again I remembered the soft world of Melanie Blaze, where everything changed constantly . . . That had to mean something, something important; but what?)

  “Which means,” said Walker, “this world can be anything at all. A cobbled street in old Paris; a Gothic castle; a giant chessboard with living pieces. I have seen them all, or something very like them. This is a place of visions and nightmares, fever-dreams and wild imaginings, and the worst impulses in man.”

  “Why?” I said. “Why would anyone want to make a world like that?”

  “Because they can,” said Walker.

  “The Powers That Be can’t control everything that happens here,” I said. I was starting to get short of breath from the climb.

  “No . . . ,” said Walker. “But they can and do decide what will best serve the Game, and its players. They always take a keen interest.”

  “While you’re in such a helpful mood,” I said, “tell me, is
there anything in particular I should look out for?”

  “Parts of this world can break away,” Walker said carefully. “And form themselves into specific, individual people. Apparently separate living beings can appear in this world, under the urging of hidden thoughts or needs from the Game’s competitors. Sometimes you can’t tell the players from the playing pieces. The players from the played. It’s that kind of place, and that kind of Game.”

  “Terrific,” I said.

  “So remember, not everything you encounter is necessarily going to be who, or even what, it seems.” Walker broke off, smiling, apparently quite pleased with the thought. “Or even who they believe themselves to be.”

  “Including you?” I said, perhaps just a bit spitefully.

  “Of course!” said Walker. “Now you’re getting it . . . It’s not unknown for old friends and enemies, the living and the dead, to appear to take part in the Big Game. Some will be real, and some won’t. Good luck figuring out which is which. And which of them you can trust.”

  “Should you really be telling me all this?” I said. I was finding it hard to get my breath now, from the climb and the altitude. Walker didn’t seem at all bothered by the climb or the conditions. Neither did the Somnambulist. Walker considered my question carefully.

  “Perhaps,” he said finally. “Perhaps not. Who can tell? If I’m not really me (and I have to say, it does feel like me), then perhaps the Powers That Be made me too well. In which case, I am Walker. Particularly if I’m dead everywhere else.”

  “If you were to leave here,” I said, “and step outside the Shifting Lands, would you still be Walker?”

  “What a fascinating question!” He actually stopped for a moment, to think about it, and the Somnambulist stopped with him. I stopped too, glad of a chance to get my breath. If the mountain wasn’t real, climbing it felt real enough. Walker smiled briefly. “I suppose it would depend on who and what I really am. Though it would be one hell of a way to find out I’d guessed wrong . . .”